


Trees

by happywhiskers



Category: Supernatural
Genre: AU, Cas POV, Falling in Love (kinda), M/M, Song Inspired, Teenage destiel, destiel au, human!Cas, school mentions, tøp inspired
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-13
Updated: 2016-06-13
Packaged: 2018-07-14 20:32:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,443
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7189079
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/happywhiskers/pseuds/happywhiskers
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"I know where you stand<br/>Silent in the trees<br/>And that's where I am<br/>Silent in the trees."</p><p>Destiel one-shot based on the song Trees by Twenty One Pilots, written in Cas' POV</p>
            </blockquote>





	Trees

**Author's Note:**

> Hey everyone!  
> I'm currently obsessed with the song Trees by Twenty One Pilots, and I was looking at the lyrics the other day and I was like "Hey... these would be awesome for a one-shot..." and, hence, this thingy that I've just written was born. Idk what it really is, kinda a one-shot, kinda a small rambly thing because I love writing Cas' POV, kinda a way to avoid revision for exams :)  
> Reading this + listening to the song = full experience XD (honestly, it's about ten times better)  
> Anyway, if you do read it, thank you, you're a v v special little bean. Virtual cookies coming your way!  
> Thanks for reading x
> 
> (Lyrics are the italics, centred parts, the actual story is the rest of the text  
> Warnings: mild, infrequent swearing; mentioned death of family; implied possibility of self-harm)

_I know_

_Where you stand_

 

He’s there. He always is.

My footfalls are fortunately muffled by the dirt of the forest floor, so he doesn’t hear me shuffle closer – I thank all the gods and spirits that I can think of that it’s summer and not autumn. A carpet of crackly leaves to contend with would get me noticed for certain.

It’s late evening, but the day is warm and bright. The sun shines through the canopy of thick, vibrantly green leaves above my head, illuminating everything in its path with its bright rays. The dirt beneath my shoes, the green grass that grows in small clumps through the dusty ground, the twisted trunks of the ancient trees that surround me, the soft, golden brown of his hair.

It’s also a Tuesday, a school day. He was at school too, I saw him sitting across the room whilst I was in the canteen. I don’t mind school – I am aware of what there is for others not to like, but I love to learn. My meagre handful of friends jokingly call me a nerd, which I suppose I am, really, but I don’t mind. I’m just grateful that I get an education.

It wasn’t a bad day today: the usual, nothing more, nothing less. Yet I have been finding it rather hard to concentrate in school lately, my mind tends to wander, more than it used to.

I stand just behind a tall oak tree. It must be an old one – its girth is wide, its trunk is smooth and weathered, and its roots sprawl across the forest floor, so that I have to be careful not to trip. I move to the right, my gaze focused on him. He can’t be more than fifteen metres away. If he were to turn, he would see me for certain, but he never seems to look around.

 

_Silent_

_In the trees_

 

His name is Dean Winchester. He stands in front of a tree, a slenderer one than the one than I have chosen to half-hide behind. From the silver of its bark, I would label it as a silver birch, but the colour is largely obliterated by large swaths of ivy covering it, creeping up its trunk and slowly suffocating it to death. From the thickness of the coverage, I would say that that tree doesn’t have long before its time will come, and it will succumb to the ivy, slowly dying under its coverage and eventually falling to the forest floor, its corpse destined to be eaten at by various detritus feeders for a long time.

Dean’s head is currently held in his hands, his shoulders shaking heavily. I can’t hear from here, but if I were to move closer, I’m sure that I would hear the muffled sound of his heartbroken sobs.

 

_And that’s_

_Where I am_

 

My arms reach out and I lean into the tree, hugging myself to it, wanting the support. I’ve always loved the forest - any forest, but particularly this one. It’s located not far from where I live, a mere ten minute walk. I don’t know when I came across it, but I think that it was about two years ago, maybe three. I come often. It’s generally deserted. There are no paths and it’s not very big, so it’s not a popular attraction for dog walkers or joggers. The trees grow thickly, meaning that little grows on the forest floor beneath their wide reaching branches. There must be many animals that inhabit the trees and grounds alike, but I hardly ever see them. It’s just me and the trees, and I like it that way.

I don’t have a hard life, not by any stretch of the imagination. My parents provide me with the basic necessities that one would require: I have a roof over my head when I sleep, I eat three good meals a day, I drink the clean water that is an expectation for those who live in countries like the one that I do, I wear clean, good quality clothes. I have friends, I have siblings, and I have parents. I have everything that I could possibly need, physically.

What I lack is the emotional necessities. My parents are barely home, and even when they are, they are very detached from their children, treating us all with courteous politeness, and nothing more. Yet, despite their apparent lack of interest in myself, there are the expectations. With several older brothers, there is a lot of pressure. I have to meet their grades, if not exceed them, and copy their impeccable behaviour, and I have to follow in the line of work that my father has set out for all of us. Apparently, this isn’t a chore for them, but it is for me. They blindly accept orders, whereas I can’t. I question, I disobey, I do things my own way – and it never ends well. I’m not cut from the same cloth as them, but they can’t seem to understand that. The fact that I am also homosexual, and have made the mistake of revealing this fact to my family, has made things even worse. My father can barely look me in the eye now.

Sometimes, I just need to be alone. So I come to the forest, and the forest welcomes me. The trees are warm and inviting in my mind, letting me walk beneath and between them. I don’t speak, I don’t cry, I don’t scream – their silent presence is enough for me to let go of everything. I visit some evenings when it all gets too much, and I always return feeling calmer, and more like myself. The forest is a place of sanctuary for myself, and apparently, it has become the same for Dean Winchester of the late.

 

_Silent_

_In the trees_

 

If the rumours circulating Dean and mine’s year group are correct, Dean’s mother died two weeks ago. It makes sense – that was when he started visiting.

I was here, sitting up amongst the branches of a large horse chestnut, letting the stress of the day seep out of me like water out of an upturned watering can, showering onto the forest floor several feet beneath me, leaving me feeling lighter and happier. I don’t know when I learned to climb, and I don’t do it often, but I was overcome by the sudden, inexplicable urge that day, and I’m glad that I was. He might have seen me otherwise. I don't know where we'd be now if he had.

It had been a long day, and the grade that I had received in a test in school was not as satisfactory as they could have been. One of my brothers found out – they always do – and I was subjected to the usual talk on how I was a disappointment to the family and that I was never going to make it if I didn’t change my ideas and how they were going to make me change my ideas if I didn’t go about it myself. My father used to administer these talks to whomever wasn’t making the cut – usually myself, even back then – but the responsibility has now fallen wordlessly into my eldest brother’s eagerly awaiting hands now that he isn’t home much. He would be so proud of him.

The lecture had lasted a long time, causing myself to get progressively more and more wound up. I’d fled to the forest the moment that he’d closed his bloody mouth, fearful that if I hadn’t, I would have done something that I would have regretted. I hadn’t been up in the tree for long before he came along. I heard him from a mile off.

The footfalls were loud and jarring, and put myself instantly on edge – I wasn’t used to company. I listened intently, glad that I was out of the way, trying to read the sounds to see if I could make out the nature of my new, and frankly (back then), unwanted, companion. The impacts were loud, quick and irregular – the sound of someone running crazily through the forest in booted feet with no sense of direction. I decided that it was a male, and he was either in danger, or perhaps emotionally deranged. It appeared that the latter was correct. I wondered how he wasn't tripping up over the frequent roots that rose from the forest floor - I was always stumbling over them myself.

The footsteps stopped. My body was tense, and I jumped violently at the next sound that I heard, almost falling from my branch. It was scream: a long, terrible, drawn-out scream. It was a sound of the purest pain that I had ever heard, and it went right through me, like a knife to my stomach. Yet, I knew that it wasn’t physical pain that this person was experiencing – it was the sound of an angered, broken heart.

Dull thumping came next. It carried on for quite some time, and I eventually gathered up the courage to find out what was really happening. I slid out of the tree silently, slithering down the trunk like a cat, and glanced around me, determining where the sound was coming from quickly before following it. I didn’t walk far before I saw him, and I felt a sudden jolt of recognition. It was Dean.

I didn’t know him, and yet I did. Everyone knows who Dean Winchester is. Star of the football team, incredibly popular with the girls, criminally handsome. He had his back to me, but I recognised him instantly. His hair was golden brown, gelled up into spikes at the top, instantly giving him away, and his frame was broad and strong beneath a worn, brown, leather jacket. The dull thumping was put into perspective when I realised that he was punching the tree in front of him. The strength that he was throwing into the punches made me wince every time he connected with the trunk. I don’t know how he did it, but he managed to pack enormous power into the punches, but was crying heavily at the same time. His shoulders shook, and his breath left him in angry sobs as he connected his fist to the unforgiving bark of the tree again, and again, and again. I don’t know how long he was punching for that evening, but I do know that I was there the entire time. I didn’t move any closer, I just watched him, silently, unable to leave. He eventually stopped, leaned against the tree for a moment, his body heaving as he clearly fought for breath, and then stumbled off, making a drunken line through the forest, clutching his clearly hurting hands to his chest. He presumably went back to his house. I didn’t follow him.

The next day it was all over school. Dean Winchester’s mother had died of leukaemia the previous afternoon. I felt sick to my stomach when I found out.

He’s come back every night ever since, and I have too. I don’t usually visit so often, only once or twice every couple of weeks, unless times are particularly tough, but I’ve returned to this spot every evening after school for two weeks straight now. As has he. It’s always the same clearing – I’m certain that there would still blood stains on the tree where he rained down his fury on it the first night if I were to go over and check. He doesn’t punch as much now. Sometimes he screams, sometimes he cries, sometimes he punches or kicks things, or rips them up. And every time, every single time, I don’t go to him.

 

_Why won’t you speak?_

 

I watch him from afar in school. I noticed him before he started to come to my forest, but only as the good-looking, popular boy who was always the centre of attention for some reason or another. Whether it’s another win with various sports teams, or what party he crashed in that car of his, or what girl he’s slept with or cheated on, who he’s beaten up this week - there’s always a story surrounding Dean Winchester. I’ve never spoken to him – we don’t even share any classes. But now, I watch him. My gaze is constantly drawn to him when he is near, whether he’s eating his lunch, or walking down the corridor, or laughing loudly at something one of his many friends has said, or chatting up some vaguely attractive girl by the lockers.

He confuses me. Here, he’s a mess, an absolute emotional wreck with the death of his mother slowly suffocating and destroying him, like the ivy on the tree. At school, he’s the same as he always was. Confident, humorous, flirtatious – no different. Sometimes, I’m close enough to hear him and his friends speaking. One time, one of them asked about his mother, I think it might have been the day after I first found him at the tree. I had glanced over my shoulder in their direction just in time to see the icy stare that was being sent in his friend’s direction. Silence fell over the group, and few other groups around them. The boy visibly shrank and muttered a small apology. I haven’t heard anyone mention the subject to him since.

He must save it all for here. He must bottle it all up at school and at home – all of his anger and sadness – and then release it all when he’s finally alone. Or thinks he is. I’m amazed that it hasn’t killed him. The force of emotion that radiates off of him when he really lets himself go, it entrances me. How can someone keep a hold of it like that? It must be like trying to force a hurricane into a small glass bottle. From what I’ve seen and what I’m guessing, he hasn’t told a single soul what he's going through. I know he has a younger brother and a father left, but I’m guessing that he isn’t telling either of them how he really feels. It can’t be healthy to keep it all it all contained like he is.

 

_Where I happen to be_

 

Yet, I can relate to him. It must be nice to have someone to speak to - to tell someone else how you really feel, to have a shoulder to cry on - but it’s not a luxury that we all have. The forest is my only companion, too. I don’t tell my friends how I feel due to my family and the pressure that I have placed upon me, I just silently tell the forest. Despite how it may seem, Dean Winchester and I aren’t really that different after all.

I’m brought back into the present as Dean steps forwards and presses his hands into the ivy on the tree. I can see his hands clenching down on it, hard. His shoulders still shake from violent sobs.

I wonder what he would do if he saw me here. Would he shout at me or beat me or force me to swear not to tell anyone what I've seen, or he’d kill me? Possibly all three. It would be even worse if he knew that I watched him every evening, every single evening. Dear God, help me.

 

_Silent_

_In the trees_

Despite the possibility of him laying into me if he were to find out that I’m here, I’m still drawn to him. I still find myself here every evening, with the very probable chance of him seeing me. I still find myself desperately wanting to go over to him and reassure him. Yet I don’t. I’m afraid, I suppose, and not just of him attacking me. I’m afraid of rejection, of receiving that same icy stare that his friend had the misfortune to receive the other day at the mere mention of his mother. I don’t think that I could take it.

 

_Standing cowardly_

So I don’t go over to him. I just stand here, uselessly, observing him like a birdwatcher observes a particularly interesting bird, watching him from afar, monitoring his progress. He’s less violent than the first night, but he hasn’t changed much since then. I wonder what it would be like to lose one of my own parents, but suppose that it’s different for Dean. He was probably a lot closer to his mother than I am to my own. He probably loved her deeply.

I wonder what it would be like to experience deep family love. I don’t really love my parents or siblings – I appreciate them and the support that they provide for me, but I don’t feel a bond to them like so many others do. I don’t even know what romantic love feels like either.

I try to put myself into Dean’s heavy, brown, leather boots, try to imagine having a deep connection with someone, loving them unconditionally, and then having them torn away from me, and suddenly feel his loss more acutely. It must be hell on Earth for him.

How long does it take for one to move on from the death of a loved one? I don’t know – I’ve never experienced it. I’m torn in what I hope for Dean. I want him to be able to move on from his mother’s death enough to be able to lead a normal, happy life where he doesn’t have to run into a forest to cry every evening, and yet, at the same time, I don’t. It’s terrible and selfish, but if he does manage to move on, I lose him. He won’t come back here, and then I’m left alone again. Just myself and the trees, and no Dean Winchester.

It’s strange and creepy, and I know it. My brothers have always told me that I’m unnatural and weird, but I doubt they know the true extent of it. I want another boy to be suffering from inner torment just so that I can come and look at him in peace every evening. Sometimes I hate myself for thinking like this – but I just can’t help it. I don’t know what it is, but I do know that I don’t like it. And I do know that I can’t fight it.

 

_I can feel your breath_

Dean’s louder now. His sobs finally carry through the forest to reach me. They’re broken and irregular and full of deep, heart-wrenching sadness, but with an undertone of deep anger, like it’s someone’s fault that his mother’s been taken from him. From what I can make out, his knuckles are white now where he’s clenching the ivy, and shaking.

I blink, and then he’s suddenly tearing at the ivy, ripping it off the tree in his rage. I can’t see his face, but I can imagine it, bright red and twisted in anger as he tears chunks of dark greenery away from the silver of the birch trunk. He isn’t screaming today, but his breath is loud and rapid, and interlaced with sobs as he works furiously at the vines.

This continues for a few minutes, the ivy falling in streamers to his leather-booted feet, and then he leans his forehead against the now clear tree trunk, sobbing even louder than before. He is truly broken.

 

_I can feel my death_

My heart clenches in my chest, and I hug harder on to the tree trunk that I’m currently clinging too, feeling tears prick at the corners of my eyes. It’s slowly killing me. At first, it just saddened me, his rage and depression. It made me feel sympathetic towards him, and almost guilty, in ways that I don’t really understand. Maybe it’s because I have a mother, and he doesn’t. Not the world’s best, admittedly, but it’s more than he now has.

However, over the days that I’ve stood by him, watching him almost religiously, I’ve become attached. I like him. I respect the strength that he forces himself to show, the face that he forces himself to put on, the character that he forces himself to play. I find the jokes that I overhear him pulling at school funny. I even like the way that he dresses. I find him fascinating. Maybe that’s why I find myself here every evening.

Now, due to this, I’m starting to feel steadily worse every time that I see him break down. I feel sadness deep in my chest, I feel tears form in my eyes, I feel… I feel it all. It’s getting worse and worse, but I can’t seem to stay away. Dean Winchester is like a flame at the end of a match that I'm holding, and the longer than I hold onto him, the more burnt I'm going to end up. Unless, of course, Dean Winchester goes out.

 

_I want to know you_

I want to help. I want nothing more than to go over to him and reassure him _and for him to accept it_. I want him to press his face into my chest as I hold him close, I want him to pour his heart out to me as he lets go of everything. I want to be the one that he confides in, the one that he trusts, the one that he goes to when he’s falling apart. I want to be his friend. I want to be burnt by the flame.

But I know that that will never happen. Fairy tale endings don’t happen in reality. The popular guy doesn’t become best friends with the strange, socially awkward guy that’s been stalking him for two weeks just because he’s offered him a shoulder to cry on about his dead mother. That’s not how life works.

It doesn’t stop me from dreaming, though.

 

_I want to see_

I wonder if I could get closer to him without him noticing. He’s still pressing his forehead against the tree trunk. He’s quieter now, but I can still hear him, and my heart is still breaking. I don’t know why, but I have some deep-rooted desire to be as close to him as possible for no reason whatsoever. Going closer is just going to get me caught.

When I watch him in school, I notice small things about him. I notice the crinkle of his eyes when he smiles, the bright white flash of his teeth when he smiles, the small splash of faint freckles across the bridge of his nose and the fullness of his lips. I don’t know how no-one has caught me semi-stalking him yet. A few of my friends have noticed how I’m less focused in conversations or in class, but they haven’t found the source yet, which is a relief. I don’t want to explain to anyone why I’m staring at Dean Winchester – that would end rather messily. They don’t even know that I’m gay – I prefer to keep most things to myself. It all works out better that way; I learnt that long ago.

 

_I want to say_

There’s so much that I want to say to him. But it’s more than that. It’s not just what I want to say, it’s what I want _him_ to say. There’s no point in me spilling my heart out if he’s just going to cold shoulder me. God, why does this all have to be so complex?

Why do I have to spend every single evening out in the forest, strangely watching a boy who probably doesn’t even know that I exist? I sound like a love-sick, twelve-year-old girl who’s found the address of her favourite singer’s house, but is too afraid to approach him. It feels like that.

 

_Hello_

What would I even say if I were to approach him?

_“Hey Dean. You don’t know me, but my name’s Castiel and I’ve been watching you for every night for two weeks whilst you cry over your dead mum. I’ve also been staring at you in school all the time, and it's because I find you fascinating. Can we be friends?”_

Jesus Christ. I almost audibly groan, but catch myself just in time, and run my hand through my hair instead, tugging on it lightly in frustration. I’ve never wanted to just already be friends with someone before so much in my life - that would make everything about ten times easier.

I’d have heard him in the forest that first time, and then have gone to him immediately, because that’s what friends do. He’d have tried to push me away, but I’d have insisted until he finally caved in and let it all go and finally confided in someone.

 

_Hello_

I’d have told him that it’s all going to be okay, and that he doesn’t need to be strong all the time. I’d have told him that his mother loved him and missed him greatly, but that she wasn’t suffering anymore. I’d have told him that he wasn’t alone, and that I was there for him.

Even saying it in my head sounds stupid. I’m no good with words, never have been. I’m no good with people either, hence why I consider my closest friends to be a bunch of bloody trees and someone who I’ve never even spoken to before.

 

_Hello-o-o_

Maybe we wouldn’t need words. Maybe the comfort of another person would be enough for him, like the comfort of the mute trees has always been enough for me. That would be a lot easier – to just be able to go up to him and wrap my arms around him and for him to accept it. Just like that.

I probably have more chance of waking up on the goddamn moon tomorrow morning.

 

_Hello_

I just want to help you, Dean. Is that really too much to ask?

 

* * *

 

 

_I know_

_Where you stand_

Again, when I reach the spot, he’s already there. How long has it been now, since I first found him, just over four weeks? I think so. I’ve been with him every night, watched him every day. He’s shown little change, not varying much from one school day and one evening to the next, but I can feel myself changing. I’m growing even more attached to him, the feelings that I feel progressing with every night that I'm here. I think about him a lot more than I should – he plagues my mind constantly. When I can’t see him in school, I search for him. I frequently wonder what he’s up to when I'm not near to him. I find myself running to the forest every evening, just to spend the maximum amount of time that I can with him. I say ‘with’ him. I still haven’t breathed a word to him. Of course.

 

_Silent_

_In the trees_

I watch from behind an elm tree today – there’s a low fork in an excellent position that allows me to watch him whilst hiding most of my body. He’s different today, I can see that immediately. It’s not unusual to see him sat on the hard ground, head in his hands, but it’s usually accompanied by the small whimpers or shaking shoulders of someone wracked by intense sobs tearing themselves from their body. Today, he is silent.

His shoulders are hunched and his knees drawn into his chest, his body tucked in on itself, making him seem a lot smaller than he is. Almost mimicking a child’s position. I listen hard, but not a single noise comes from him. Not one. This is the position of a defeated man.

 

_And that’s_

_Where I am_

I bite my lip and place one hand on the elm, feeling my own shoulders slumping slightly. The waves of defeat rolling off of him are reaching me, crashing over me, and dragging me down into a state of complete and utter depression. What’s changed? I normally get something from him – screams, tears, violence. Why am I suddenly faced with someone who’s given up?

 

_Silent_

_In the trees_

This change in character makes me want to go to him even more. The urge to comfort him has grown ever stronger as the weeks have passed, but not yet strong enough for me to act on it. However, this defeated Dean has reawakened this urge with renewed fever in my chest. My feet want to move, my arms want to hold, my lips want to whisper encouraging words.

Because this depressed state is so much worse than the anger. Hopelessness leads to giving up, and giving up leads to… and I don’t think that I could handle that. I don’t have Dean Winchester, yet I still can’t lose him.

 

_Why won’t you speak?_

I wrap my fingers around one of the elm’s branches, clutching on to it tightly, my gaze still fixed intently on Dean. I’m willing him to get up. I’m willing him to start punching something or to start crying or to just do _something_. Anything to show me that he’s still here with me, still the Dean Winchester that I know. The silence that I once craved so often is killing me. The trees suddenly seem sinister, leaning over him, watching him as malevolent presences. Unhelpful and uncaring. Is that what I am too, because of my silence? Just another malignant presence, leering at him. Shit – why does it have to be this way?

 

_Where I happen to be_

I press my free hand to my forehead, practically feeling the anguish written across my face. Why do I do this – to myself and to him? It does nothing for me, and it does even less for him. I should go, head home, and forget about Dean Winchester. Yet I know, deep down, that that will never be an option.

 

_Silent_

_In the trees_

So I stay. My hand falls from my forehead, and I place it by the other one on the elm tree for nothing better to do with it. He’s still sitting there. His position hasn’t changed, he doesn’t even flex his fingers every now and then, or shuffle his legs. He must be so uncomfortable by now. The only reassurance for myself that he isn’t dead is the fact that he hasn’t fallen to the side, and there is the steady rise and fall of his broad shoulder beneath his military green jacket that indicates that he is still breathing. That’s another strange thing – the evenness of his breaths. It’s always been irregular when I’ve watched him before. Does his mean that he’s finally calming down, letting his mother finally slip away to another world, without him?

Perhaps, but I doubt it. Someone set free of the ghost of another would feel free, happy and hopeful, I imagine. Dean doesn’t look this way; I’d even go as far to say that he’s never looked this bad before. It’s terrifying for me.

 

_Standing cowardly_

I think back to school earlier. I’d seen Dean several times, but I didn’t notice any difference. He was the same loud, joking character that he always is when he’s there with his friends. What has sparked this change? The uncertainty is slowly destroying me. Why do I have to avoid approaching him all the time? I hate myself for it.

 

_I can feel your breath_

I close my eyes tight for a moment, trying to get a grip on myself and the situation, and whilst I do, something changes. I hear it before I see it, and my eyes fly open. His breathing’s changed. It’s louder and quicker now, and his shoulders are shaking ever so slightly. I take this as a positive sign, perhaps he’s going to cry again. That would be reassuring, however strange that sounds. Any sign of life is something that I’ll gladly take right now.

But he doesn’t cry. I watch for several minutes, but there’s no change, just the amped up breathing and shaking. He’s like a bomb about to go off, and I’m suddenly very afraid.

 

_I can feel my death_

The shaking and breathing continues, and I can feel my chest steadily tighten with fear, like someone's taking my insides in their hand and clutching them harder and harder. What’s he going to do when he finally snaps? I don’t know, but I can feel, I just _know_ , that it’s going to be bad. What if he hurts himself; what will I do? Will I watch him silently, about as useful as the elm that I’m standing behind, or will I actually approach him and try to help? What would he do if I did finally try to help him? I can imagine that it wouldn’t be pretty.

 

_I want to know you_

And I suddenly find myself not caring. It’s such a surprise that I catch myself quickly, and stare at my hands still clutched around the elm branch. What the hell is happening to me?

I think it over again, more slowly this time, and then realise that I genuinely don’t care that much anymore about what he would do. Of course, there’s still the underlying fear of death if he finds out that I’ve been staring at him for more than four weeks, but much of it has gone. Evaporated into the air around me in a sudden rush of selflessness. If I can stop him from going off, from doing something that he’ll regret, then it will be worth it. He could beat me, scream at me, or worse, completely ignore and shun me, but it would be okay. The guilt would be gone. I feel about a stone lighter at the sudden decision. I know it’s the right thing to do. I take a deep breath, feeling calmer.

 

_I want to see_

However, I still have to actually go about speaking to him. The decision has only brought me a baby-step closer to actually talking to him – now I actually have to go about it. And I’m frightened. I run a shaky hand through my hair and let out a long, silent breath that I'd forgotten I'd been holding. He’s still the same as he was before, and that’s mildly reassuring, but I know that I have to go soon, or he will go off. And I’ll be right in the line of fire.

 

_I want to say_

What do I say? I run over a long list of possible things to say to him, but each sounds as false and pathetic as the next. This is all stupid. I can’t do this. I should go, before something irreversible happens...

But my feet won’t move. Half of my mentality wants to flee and hide in my bed with the covers thrown over me to hide my guilty self from the harsh world outside, but the other half is growling at me for being a coward, forcing me to stay and face the music. To face Dean Winchester. I can do this…

 

_Hello_

If I can just be of some sort of mild help, then it will be worth it. If I can just stop him from doing whatever it is that he’s going to do, it will be worth it. It genuinely will. I let go of the tree, and ball my hands into tight fists, my short nails digging into my palms, hard enough to be uncomfortable.

I wonder what’s going through his head right now as he sits on the ground, shaking like a small leaf in a storm. I wonder what will go through his head when I finally reveal myself to him. And it’s a ‘when’ now, not an ‘if’. I have to do this; I can’t back down now. If I do, if I let this opportunity slip through my fingers, then I think that the guilt will just about finish me off. At least I can die with a free mind if he beats me and leaves me for the wolves. I wonder vaguely if there are actually wolves in this forest.

 

_Hello_

_Come on, Castiel._ This is it.

I step out silently from behind the tree. I think that I might be shaking as much as he is. Then I just do it - I move forwards. All the nerves and emotions from the past four weeks course through my body, sloshing through my veins as I move unsteadily, and filling me with guilt and sadness and anticipation and fear, all at the same time. It all results in a very confusing rush, but I force myself to keep going. I have to do this.

My feet are quiet on the dirt ground, but he will hear me soon. He hasn’t seen me, his head is still in his hands, but I walk to him head-on. He will look up; he will finally see me.

 

_Hello-o-o_

I’m about ten feet away when Dean looks up. His face is red, but not from tears, like it usually is. I don’t know what I expect to see, but it isn’t what I’m actually faced with. His features hold an acute expression of confusion at my sudden presence, but also a generally raw look. His forest green eyes, so like the colour of the leaves on the trees above us, are dead. When I see them at school, they’re always alive with laughter or happiness, but it’s like it’s all been drained from him now, leaving pools of terrible emptiness behind. He looks like he’s given up. The look resolves me, and I keep walking.

As I get closer, I notice all the same, small things about his face that I notice every time I see him, but they’re closer now. I can see the individual delicate freckles scattered across his nose, I can see the faint beginning of crow’s feet at the outer corners of his eyes from years of laughter, and I can smell the scent that comes off of him. Old leather; car oil; forest scents; whiskey. Has he been drinking too? Oh, Dean…

I’m a lot closer now, and I stop in front of him, about three feet away. He’s still watching me with the same mildly puzzled expression, but it’s a lot more muted than it should be, like he doesn’t care about anything anymore. Another part of my heart dies and falls away. His legs come down from his chest, as if he’s semi-bracing himself for attack.

I gather my thoughts, and he waits for me to speak. There’s silence for several moments between us, accompanied by intense eye contact, green on blue, that I almost drown in, before I break it with the most appropriate thing that I can think of.

 

_“Hello.”_

 

**Author's Note:**

> And that's it! If you liked it please leave kudos or a comment or something, because that would just make my day XD  
> If you want a second chapter (though I have no idea what I would write), let me know in the comments  
> Thanks again for reading! x


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